


Ghosts

by Harmonious_wordsmith



Category: Chris Evans (actor) - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 16,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harmonious_wordsmith/pseuds/Harmonious_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N the story is not over. I have about 5 chapters left to wrap everything up.<br/>I am SOOO sorry for the delay on this fic, I hope getting 11 chapters in one day makes up for it. <br/>As I write the remainder of the story, it will be updated. I'm hoping I'll be finished with the story by next week.<br/>Thank you for reading!<br/>Keep an eye out for the rest.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

(Female Narrative)  
You told me about her a few years ago. Right as we were really hitting it off, you tell me about this woman who stole your heart. Said you may never be able to get over her, and I understand that. Just in the way you say her name, I can tell how much you loved her. But that isn’t enough to make me give up on you. One day you’ll see me. One day you’ll be able to look past her and let me in. You’ll find a way to love me too.  
.  
.  
.  
(Chris POV)  
Do you remember when I met you? I was on location. I didn’t think much of it at the time, at least not beyond how beautiful you were. Especially since it wasn’t even a conventional beauty; none of those high-cheekbone-focused-32-waist-obsessed guidelines to stand in the way. Your cheekbones were perfect. Your hair suited you. Everything about you was so interesting; there was something in how you carried yourself that I just couldn’t ignore, a confidence and self-assurance that was, at the risk of sounding like a chick-flick, mesmerizing. You worked at the café I would go to every afternoon for lunch, and every time I missed you I considered going to a different restaurant. I wasn’t exactly there for the food. After a few months we managed to see quite a bit of each other, got to know each other over the shop counter, though neither of us ever went as far as to ask for a number or a date,  
One afternoon I had a particularly short lunch break, so I had to call in my order,  
“Hey, mister-Mediterranean-on-rye-extra-mustard-extra-olives-and-iced-tea, would you like some chips with that today?” You say with your signature, lopsided smile.  
“Do I ever?” I would come in every day to see that smile. I actually do. I’m not a huge fan of the Mediterranean sandwich here, but it seems to be the only vegetarian option on your menu, so I go with it because whenever you smile at me like that, I feel like I’ve been let in on an inside joke.  
“One of these days, Evans. I will get you to order potato chips.”  
“Not likely.”  
“Ah, right, gotta keep up that underwear-model bod, right?” You say with a wink. The flirting was the best part of every lunch break. I still hadn’t had the nerve to ask you out, so far our schedules didn’t seem to coalesce all that well anyway, but I will. Someday. Probably not today.  
“Well, if I eat too poorly, then it gets harder and harder to fit in the suit.” I prop myself on my elbows on the tall counter, leaning a little bit closer to you,  
“Oh, and one bag of chips will change that? Come on, now.”  
“No, one bag won’t change much, it’s the half dozen that follow that can start to cramp my style.” You giggle at me. I love that sound.  
“I stand by it.” You say, stubbornly. “One of these days, I will make you eat potato chips.” You lean closer to me, pushing my bagged order over the counter,  
“You just keep trying.” I say softly.  
“Order up.” How you make that sound so seductive, I don’t think I will ever know, but I know I’ll see you tomorrow.  
I’m always distracted after lunch, and I always blame you, but this time it wasn’t because I was kicking myself for not asking you out, it was because of what I found in my bag.  
Freaking potato chips… with your phone number scrawled across the front of the bag.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes you talk about her like she's still here, 'oh, she would love this book.' And 'that's her favorite dessert.' Like your past with her isn't quite in the past. I try my hardest to let it go, but to me it’s just more evidence that I can’t measure up to her in your eyes. How am I supposed to compete with a ghost?  
.  
.  
.  
I stare at my phone, thumb hovering over the send button. I feel like such a pansy; the worst that could happen would be you saying no, but considering the fact that you gave me your number without me even asking for it, a no isn't likely. I cancel the call, tossing my phone onto the coffee table, raking my hands through my hair, and grab a drink from the kitchen. I come back, sipping my water, and stare at the phone. Why is this so hard? It's Friday afternoon, she's most likely working, just leave a message.  
"Suck it up, Evans." I mutter at myself; hopping over the back of the couch, I snatch up my phone. I redial and hit send before I can think about it, but when you pick up after the third ring I go cold. I didn't think about what I was going to say.  
"Hello?” Uh-oh. “…Anyone there?" I can't talk. I can't put together any coherent thoughts. What’s happening to me? Click. Wonderful, you hung up.  
I dial again. You pick up after one ring this time,  
"Okay, who is this? If it's a prank--"  
"No, it's not. Sorry. I uh... Got distracted..."  
"Who... Evans? Did you actually call me?" I can hear that you're smiling, which almost puts me at ease,  
"Maybe... I thought you might be working..."   
"So you were trying to dodge actually talking to me? Or you were trying to get me in trouble?"   
"Oh, no, I didn't want to get you in trouble--" you giggle, which makes me smile,   
"Well good, today's my day off anyway, what's up?"  
"Well, I'm actually calling to complain about my service."  
"Oh really? What seems to be unsatisfactory about your service, sir?"   
"Should I be talking to a manager about this?" I tease,  
"Sure thing... What seems to be unsatisfactory about your service, sir?" I hear you snort,  
"You're the manager, huh?"  
"Have I impressed you yet?"   
"More than you know." I laugh.  
"So what's wrong with how I run the shop? Too friendly? Too clean? Ah, too healthy, right?"  
"Actually, your staff is kinda pushy, and they got my order wrong. I'm pretty sure I didn't ask for these chips. In fact I was quite adamant that I didn't want them." I try to sound stern, I really do, but you laugh at me anyway,  
"Yeah, well you didn't ask for the number on the bag either, but here we are."  
"I thought the customer is always right?"   
"The customer always thinks they're right." You snort, "trust me, a month in customer service and you'll see how crazy people get over the dumbest things..."  
"Like a bag of chips?"   
"Is this you being crazy? 'Cause I can live with it." We crack jokes at each other and chuckle a little while longer, I’ve almost forgotten the real reason I called, "So then, how would you like me to fix this grave mistake, sir?"   
Okay, take a breath, say it before you can think.  
"Would you be hungry for dinner?" Wait... Maybe you should have thought about it a little bit. "I mean... Would you be interested --"  
"In being hungry?" I can hear the teasing in your voice,  
"No I mean, do you eat dinner... No wait..."  
"I do normally eat dinner..." your voice is strained with stifled laughter, and my face gets hotter by the second,  
"No,” I sigh, dropping my head into my hands,  
“Spit it out, Evans.” You say quietly, almost to yourself, and I can tell you’re enjoying this too much,  
“I’m trying to ask if you would you like to have dinner with me."   
"Oh! Why didn't you just say so?" I sit shaking my head, waiting for a real answer,  
"Well?" I ask after a long silence.  
"Well, what?" You giggle, still teasing me.  
"Don't make me try to say that again." I groan. My face is burning, what I intended to be a smooth request for a date has turned into a clumsy nightmare, and I almost want you to reject me just so I can hang up.  
“Of course I want to have dinner with you. I gave you my number, stupid.” I can’t keep myself from smiling, relief cancelling out some of the awkwardness,  
“Great, I know this great sandwich shop nearby. The staff is mostly friendly, but they may purposely get your order wrong.”  
“…Very funny.” The dryness in your voice makes me laugh,  
“Seriously, though. Saturday night, text me your address and I’ll pick you up at 7.” I finally get a soft sigh out of you,  
“Sounds perfect.”


	3. Chapter 3

It took a while to accept why you were so closed off to me. I know she was special to you, and I know you're trying to pull me closer, but sometimes, it's so hard not to be jealous. We would have moments of sheer bliss, just enjoying each other's company, sometimes in total silence, and then I would feel you slowly slipping away from me, back to a time when you were happier than I could ever make you.  
.  
.  
.  
After our date night, we hit it off. We didn't have all the same interests by any means, but we found plenty of ways to enjoy each other's company. There were trips with just the two of us going hiking or rock climbing…   
"Just be careful up there!" I called to you, my stomach lurching as you unhooked your rope.   
"Watch this!" You yelled back, climbing up another foot or two, I fisted my hands in my hair seeing you swing yourself over a ledge, no safety net to catch you if you slipped. "Ta-da!"   
"Very funny, now hook back up and come down."  
“Aw, you’re such a buzz kill!” you stood, balanced on the edge of the cliff, walking along like a cat on a fence,   
“And you’re going to give me a heart attack!” Your laugh echoed down to me and I finally couldn’t watch anymore. I heard the gravel and dirt crunch and scrape under your shoes and I had to look back up. Every step you took, I held my breath, wondering what I could even do if you slipped. With your last hop, you landed in front of me with a grunt. "What is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me?" I pulled you to me, making you giggle at my bear hug. I'm finally breathing easier now that you were on the ground. "Promise me I never have to see you do that again." You just smiled, hugging me close,   
"Yes, Christopher." You whispered, humoring me. I knew you would free climb again. And I knew you were skilled enough to do it. I just couldn't watch.  
Other times we would lay out on your front lawn, the roof of my building, or even in the park on a hill, staring at the stars. I tried to show off for you for once, spouting facts about the constellations. I think I got one right, but after a while it became a game with us. You would sit on the grass, between my legs, leaned back against my chest; I would wrap one arm around your stomach, with the other, sometimes I would grasp your hand or stroke your hair. Tonight I am holding your hand while pointing out clusters of stars, and even though you know my stories are bogus, you always ask for more.  
"That one right there," I indicate the pattern, leaning closer to you than is really necessary, "is Cassiopeia. It was Galileo's favorite constellation, he called it 'my rose'. Whenever he saw it, he thought of his lover. Her name was Iris, but he preferred Roses, so he would call her Rose." I see you trying not to smile, and I feel your stomach spasm under my arm with a stifled laugh. "It's true!" I insist,  
"Yes, Christopher." You whisper, tightly, your voice straining with laughter.  
Our first night together was three months after we became official, you had been out of town for something. You never gave me many details, and with work I kept forgetting to ask. You came over for a quiet date night, which I had planned to perfection: I made my mom’s lasagna, even had candles and wine and a homemade dessert; then I rented your favorite movie for after dinner, but as soon as I saw you on my doorstep, I couldn't believe how much I had missed you. I hugged you as soon as you got inside and didn’t particularly feel like letting go, it wasn’t until your stomach growled that I finally gave in and let you go.   
We ate dinner quickly and turned on the movie, but neither of us paid any attention to the TV. The opening credits hadn't finished before you had leaned back on my couch, pulling me on top of you. I felt like I was back in high school, nervous and fumbling. I think I kicked over a lamp at some point, and I stubbed my toe on the door jamb when I carried you to the bedroom; you just giggled and swallowed my curses with a kiss that made my knees go weak. Afterward, as we cooled down and caught our breath, you lay on top of me in my bed, both of us covered with a thin sheet, the room too warm to warrant a heavier cover. Fingers were carding through hair, stroking down cheeks and noses and across jaw lines. You stared into my eyes, into me, and sighed happily.  
"I love you so much." I whispered for the hundredth time that night, watching your eyes sparkle again at the declaration, "Please stay with me. Never leave again, just stay here." I want to cringe at the desperation in my own voice, but your smile never falters. I catch the tear that slipped down your cheek.  
"Yes, Christopher." You whispered, and we fell asleep, bodies molding to one another, heartbeats calming, skin cooling.


	4. Chapter 4

“So where are we going?” you flutter your eyelashes at me as soon as I get in the car,  
“I already told you.”  
“No, you said it’s a surprise.”  
“Exactly.”  
You stare at me, expecting me to cave, instead I stare back for a moment, then pinch your nose.  
“Ouch! What was that for?”  
“Pushing. Don’t worry about it, I’m gonna knock your socks off.”  
“Aw, come on, that’s what we did last night.” You lean over the console, kissing my neck under my ear, making me shiver,  
“Hey, now, I really do have plans for us, but if you just want to—“  
“No,” you laugh, “let’s go… where again?”  
“To the surprise. Nice try though.” You roll your eyes at me and buckle up, as we take off.  
I pull up in front of a little bookstore and tell you to stay put as I run around to open the door for you.  
“A bookstore?” you look at me, “you brought me to a bookstore for a date?” I freeze for a moment. My smile falls and I think back, trying to figure out what I misunderstood, then you throw your arms around me, “Best. Boyfriend. Ever!” And you pull me in for a kiss before tugging me inside.  
“So, we’re not just here to look at books.” You quirk an eyebrow at me as I pull post-its and two pens from my pocket. “I read somewhere about someone who would go to bookstores and leave notes in their favorite books. They can tell the reader about your favorite part, offer criticism, or recommend other books like it. It sounded like something you would like…” I trail off, feeling like the idea was cheesier than I originally thought when I said it out loud. But then you took a pen and half the post its,  
“That is amazing. Like, beyond amazing, but I feel like I should warn you, I may want to make this a regular thing.” I smile, relieved, and kiss the top of your head,  
“Any time you want, babe.”  
We spent the next two hours writing notes and discreetly sticking them in books we’d read. I could tell when you found the Sci-Fi section, because every time I turned around you were either raving about or roasting a book. One was too weird and the characters were one-dimensional, another had bizarre relationships, like sister-wife; then there were the ones that you could quote because of having read them so many times. I offered to buy a couple of them for you, but every time I offered, it ended up being one you already owned.  
“Okay, now, you’re making me seem like a bad boyfriend here.” You cock your head at me, confused, “You won’t let me buy you anything.”   
“You don’t have to buy me anything.” You laugh,  
“Maybe I want to, though. I just can’t because it seems like you already own all the good books in the store.”   
“Don’t worry about it, Evans. Buying things is not a requirement of a relationship, or a good date.” You punch my shoulder playfully and as soon as you turn away I pull you backwards into a bear hug, making sure my beard scrapes along your neck, making you squeal.  
“Do I have to turn the hose on you two?” My friend calls from the front counter,  
“No, Reggie, we’re cool.” I say, quickly letting you go.   
“Sorry, Reggie. We’ll behave.” You call back to him, turning back to the main event of our date. It was a small store, so the selection was pretty thin, but you still managed to find over a dozen books to leave notes in and I finally noticed you were hanging on to one of them. Every time you wrote another note, you would take a look at it, flipping through the pages, like you were deciding if you wanted to put it back.   
I wrote a few notes, but then just sat back and watched you as you got absorbed in your task. I know how much you love books, and I love watching your eyes light up when you talk about them. You get worked up about your favorite character, share theories on an arc you got lost in, recommend books that you thought should be in the same genre or you felt were overlooked and managed to fly under the radar. I love how passionate you get about the things you love, and watching you write a particularly long note, I realize something,  
“Unfortunately, I did actually make reservations for dinner tonight, and we have to get going to make it in time. Did you find something you wanted?” You glance at the book you’ve been holding back one more time, deliberating.  
“Nah.” You slip it back onto its shelf,  
“You sure? If you want that one, I’ll get it for you,” I try to grab for it, but you catch my hands,  
“No, it’s fine. I’ve heard of it, but I’m not sure I actually want it.”  
“You’ll never know if you don’t try it.” I say with a wink, but you pull me toward the door before I can grab it,  
“Come on, let’s just go to dinner.” we nod our goodbyes to Reggie, an old friend of mine, who just waves, chuckling and shaking his head as you pull me out the door,   
“So, are you at least gonna tell me where we’re going for dinner?” I kiss your forehead and open your car door for you,  
“Just get in.”


	5. Chapter 5

I remember our first big fight. It was almost the end of us. I can’t stand confrontation, and you have that Italian-Irish passion that can so easily flare up for better or worse. I can’t even remember now what exactly the fight was about, something stupid, I’m sure. I started nit-picking, nagging you about something even though I saw how tired you were, knowing it wouldn’t end well, and you exploded. The main thing that sticks out in my mind is that I didn’t even make it to the elevator in your building before you were running after me, apologizing for yelling and pleading with me not to leave. I’ve always wondered why you looked so worried, so scared, as you ran after me. Like you’d just had a nightmare, or a flashback to something you couldn’t handle alone.  
.  
.  
.  
A few weeks after our one-year anniversary, you met up with me at my place. I originally planned on us spending the afternoon at the harbor, but when you showed up, you were looking a bit under the weather. You had dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks were sunken, and while I knew you were working on eating healthier, it looked like you had lost a little too much weight. I’m starting to worry.  
“Babe, are you okay?” I feel your forehead, your temperature seems normal,  
“I’m fine.”   
“You sure? ‘Cause, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re looking really pale and a little too thin. Are you sleeping alright?”   
“Seriously, don’t worry about me. No, I haven’t been sleeping all that well, but I’m fine.” You press a little longer before I let it drop,  
“Well, how about we just stay in tonight?” I pull you to the couch and make you sit and help me pick a movie, and while you set it up, I start some tea for you. I bring you your mug and join you on the couch, throwing my arms around your shoulders, but you hiss in pain and jerk away.  
“Whoa, what happened? What did I do?”   
“No, it wasn’t you, sorry. I’m just sore.”  
“What from?”  
“I already told you I’m not feeling well, that’s all, just don’t worry about it.” I move my arm, and catch a glimpse of a darkened patch on your back, just over your shoulder blade but low enough that your shirt almost covered it.  
“Babe, what’s this?” I pull the back of your shirt down to get a better look, but you shrug my hands away, trying to ignore the question.  
“It’s nothing, I just bruise easy. I’m pushing play.”  
“No, not yet, this is bad, who did this?” You keep fighting against me, pushing my hands away, but not before I peeled back your collar far enough to see the blossom of blue and black as it crawled down your shoulder blade,  
“No one did it, Chris, I probably just ran into something.”  
“This isn’t just a bump,” I grasp your make you look at me, “Is someone hurting you?”  
“No,” you laugh, but I can’t quite believe it. You look too skittish, “I just bruise easily, I don’t even know where most of them come from—“  
“That’s bull! This isn’t funny, what aren’t you telling me?” You look like you want to slap me for just a moment, but take a slow breath instead,   
“Chris, if there’s something I’m not telling you, I assure you there is a good reason.” You jump up, looking ready to leave, but I’m not finished. I catch your arm and spin you back to me,  
“Listen,” I hold your arms, trying to ignore your hiss of pain as you try to squirm away, “I understand the need to keep certain things to yourself, but now is not the time. If I find someone has been hurting you, God help them.” Your eyes look misty, but I’m not sure if it’s because of my grip on your arm or if I maybe struck a chord, “Was it an ex? Who was it?”  
“Chris, you’re the one hurting me right now. Nothing is going on that you need to know about.” I finally let you twist out of my grasp; you rub your arm, snatch up your purse, and head for the door.  
“But something is going on, isn’t it?” I whisper, my pulse roaring in my ears as my suspicions run wild. My hands shake at the thought of you seeing someone else, clenching to fists at the thought of him hitting you.  
“You don’t understand.” You toss over your shoulder, “Just don’t worry about it.”  
“Ya know, the more you tell me not to worry, the more I worry. Why don’t you want to tell me?”   
You spin around at the door, the anger flashing in your eyes,  
“Maybe it’s none of your damn business!” you storm out, the door slamming so hard the picture beside it nearly shakes off the wall.  
I sink back down onto the couch, seething. This isn’t our first fight, we both seem to have inherited the explosive Irish temper, but something about this felt different.  
Something was off.  
Something was very very wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

The first time you told me you loved me, I thought it was a mistake. It seemed like a knee-jerk reaction, you kissed me good night and it seemed to slip out. We both paused at my front door, you looked almost scared, but I let it slide, waving a bit awkwardly. Giving you an out. You ducked away down the hall and I let my door close behind you. I couldn’t stop myself, I cried behind that door for at least an hour. You still couldn’t let yourself love me.   
.  
.  
.  
For a few days after our fight, I gave you your space, my own attitude fluctuating between telling myself I didn’t care what happened to you since you obviously didn’t want me to care, and being so worried I couldn’t focus, dialing your number, just to cancel the call; typing up a text only to delete it. I finally made myself call three days after you left,  
“Listen, babe, I know I pushed too hard. I’m really sorry, I’m just worried about you.”  
Then, again, the next day,   
“Babe, I need to know that you’re okay. Call me back.”  
Two days after that I still hadn’t heard from you, so I texted,  
‘Seriously. If you’re not wanting to talk with me, just send me a text, cuss me out, send a pic of you flipping me off. Anything. Just let me know you’re okay.’  
I didn’t know how else to get a hold of you except meeting up with you at your job, so I headed to the shop after a week and a half of radio silence.   
I had no idea what I was stepping into that day, I just knew it was the last place I could check.   
“Hey, Pauley,” I greeted your assistant manager, “Is—“  
“Hey Handsome!” he all but squeals, running around the counter to hug me. When I first started coming to this deli he was the first to flirt shamelessly with me, and flattering as it was, I don’t think I could handle him. He had a tendency to be more… enthusiastic than some of my most devoted fans, “What are you doing here?” he never releases me, “I was sure you had lost interest in us for good! Have you finally realized your mistake? Or are you actually here to pick up lunch for your little love bug?” I chuckle at his dramatics, and his nick name for you, but my half-hearted smile falls quickly,   
“I’m actually looking for her, we had… we had a bit of an argument a little over a week ago and I haven’t been able to get a hold of her since.”  
“Ah, well she’s not here, hasn’t been all week. Out sick, actually.” He finally lets me go, headed back to his station behind the counter, “But she should be coming back in the next day or so. Usually how long it lasts. Should still be at Dana’s.” I freeze, and I’m sure the color has drained from my face,  
“Who’s Dana?” I want to kick myself now for not knowing why he looked at me so funny, but at the time, the name did nothing for my ridiculous scenarios explaining your need for secrecy,  
“Uh… that’s funny…” he chuckles, confused, “She’s not coming back for a few days at least, you should know by now that she never feels up to working after all that junk…” he seems to catch onto my blank look, “unless you didn’t know—“  
“What junk?” His face goes completely white, like he’d just spilled a secret,  
“Um… Why do I get the feeling she’s gonna kill me when she gets back?”  
“Where does Dana live?” I demand, trying not to make a scene for the half dozen customers who haven’t paid us much attention so far, but I’m getting more frustrated by the second. He shakes his head a little bit, looking sad all of a sudden,  
“Dana-Farber… 450 Brookline Ave, cab would probably be quickest… just… don’t let her kill me. If she didn’t tell you, I had no right. I just thought—you’ve just been together so long… I figured you would have to know by now…”  
“Yeah, that’s kinda what this whole thing is about.” I thank him, absentmindedly, rushing out the door. That side of Brookline wasn’t a residential area, but I can’t remember what is there besides offices and…  
“Oh no.”  
I hail a cab, spitting out the address and urging him to get across town as soon as he could. I bounced my leg the whole ride, chewing my nails, trying to convince myself that it wasn’t as bad as I was thinking. Pauley wasn’t upset, and he’s an open book, so it can’t be that bad, right? For all I know, this is just an appointment and there is nothing to worry about anyway. Finally, the cab pulls up in front of the hospital, and I climb out, nearly forgetting to pay the driver, and double checking the address, just to be sure. I look up, my heart jumping to my throat as I read ‘Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.’


	7. Chapter 7

It took me a while to get used to how close you would keep me at times. It seemed like it was all or nothing with you, you were either keeping me at a distance or borderline smothering. Our first few nights together, I would wake up in the middle of the night from how tight you were holding me. One arm wrapped around my waist, the other across my shoulders, pulling me back against your chest, your nose nuzzling at the back of my neck. It felt like you thought I would disappear if you didn’t hold me tight enough. The thought that you were still so worried about losing me broke my heart, leaving me crying silently as I saw the sky lightening, hoping that maybe today would be the day that I could see you let go. See you come back. See your heart mending.  
.  
.  
.  
It took several minutes to get the receptionist to focus and give me your room number. I left her at the front desk calling out directions and telling me visiting hours would be over at 5 this evening. I don’t remember the walk. I don’t remember navigating the hallways, but I remember standing outside your door, not wanting to knock, not wanting to admit that this was happening.  
A nurse comes bustling out with a chart, giving me a nod as she passed me in the doorway, and I catch a glimpse of you, even thinner than the last time I saw you, your hair losing its shine, eyes pained and sunken. I let the door close in my face, too much of a coward to face you.  
After what feels like hours, but the clock insists was only about five minutes, I finally work up the nerve to slip into the room. You were on your side, staring out the window and trying to breathe deeply, your thinning muscles tensing as waves of pain rolled over you. I want nothing more than to go to you and hold you, but something is holding me back. Why would you hide something like this from me?  
"This is what you weren't telling me?"   
Your head whips around and you yelp, your hand going straight to your neck. "This is what you were telling me not to worry about?"  
"Chris..." You breathe out, disbelieving,   
"How could you tell me not to worry about this? How could you think I shouldn't know that you’re sick?" You shift yourself to your back to look at me more easily, wincing with every move.  
"I asked you to let this drop--"  
"I know what you asked but I--"  
"There's nothing you can do!" I flinch at the crack in your voice, after a few shaky breathes, you continue, “I was diagnosed with this years ago. I did all the treatments, fought until I was just about ready to give in. I thought I was done. We all thought we got rid of it, but earlier this year it showed up again.”  
“So, you’re out of remission. Isn’t that normal? People beat cancer even when they’ve come out of remission, right?” You wince again as you pinch the bridge of your nose,  
“I don’t care if it’s normal, or if it’s beatable, Chris. However I look at it…” you trail off and turn away from me suddenly, your shoulders trembling,  
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry.” I jump forward, sliding onto the bed next to you, I want to rub your back, but last time that didn’t seem to go over too well. “I just… I don’t know what to do here.”  
“I know.” You sniffle,  
“I still can’t understand why you wouldn’t want me to know about this. We’ve been together for over a year, and I never knew you had cancer.”  
“Have… I have cancer, Chris.” Your voice is so small I can’t stand it, I scoot closer, stretching out behind you and running my fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry.” You sob, “I didn’t want to drop this bomb on you when everything was going so well. For all I know this round of treatment will get rid of it for good. I was just hoping I would be able to keep it under wraps and you wouldn’t have to deal with it.”  
“Deal with what? You’re the one fighting right now. And I’m here. I’m always here if you need me. Whether or not you want me to be.” I chuckle, smoothing your hair back and planting a kiss behind your ear. I hear you giggle, although it comes out with a groan,  
“I know you’re here.” You turn over to face me, with some effort, “And I know this is big… And I’m so scared.” I brush away a few tears as they start to fall, framing your face and pulling you to me. I kiss you lightly, resting my forehead on yours as you calm down, pulling yourself together.   
“Listen to me,” I pull you closer to me, trying to be sensitive to the aches you were feeling, “You are amazing. You are one of the strongest women I’ve ever known—“  
“One of?” You ask, cheekily,  
“Sweetheart, you’ve met my mother.” You snort at me, nodding.   
“This is true. I wish I was as strong as that woman.”  
“You are. I will never stop marveling at how strong you are, but you do not need to do this alone. And I’m going to make sure you don’t. I know your family is gone, but you are more a part of my family than you could know. So whatever happens, I will be right here. Anything you need, tell me. I love you so much, you’re not getting rid of me any time soon.”  
I stayed on that bed with you until visiting hours ended, running my fingers through your hair as your aches slowly faded, holding your hair back when your stomach was upset by your treatment, holding you as tight as I could without hurting you. Before I left, we made sure the hospital had me listed as your emergency contact, and I promised I would be back the next day. Stepping out into the evening foot traffic in Boston, it hits me how different everything is now. The sunset feels less like the picturesque beauty it is and more like an hourglass running low.   
I needed help. I couldn’t sit alone at my apartment, so I grabbed my phone, dialing the first number that came to mind, bouncing my right leg as the line rang,  
“Hello?”  
“…Hey Mom.”


	8. Chapter 8

I found out early on that you liked when I read to you. We’ve spent many a rainy day with your head resting on my lap as I read, anything from Game of Thrones to A Tale of Two Cities. It’s become one of my favorite pastimes, watching as all your nerves unwind themselves, seeing you slowly relax until you fall asleep. You told me once to keep reading even after you were asleep, that you could still hear me, that it helped you find your way out of your nightmares. So I would read. I would run my fingers through your hair, or rest a hand on your chest, and I would read until my voice went hoarse.  
Anything to help you find your way back to me.  
.  
.  
.  
Scott sets his hand on my shoulder, holding an umbrella over my head. I lay the roses at the base of the polished marble, staring at your name and the dates beneath, the letters too cold. Meaningless. Doing nothing to capture the warmth of your personality, the brightness that would flash in your eyes when you were being sassy and sarcastic. I didn’t think I would be able to cry, but I haven’t been able to stop since the funeral began.  
Scott never rushes me to get going, just sticks close, but now he gently shakes my shoulder. I try to shrug him off, I know everyone is waiting in the car, but I’m not ready to leave. He keeps shaking,  
“Chris.” I turn around and no one’s there, “Chris…” my shoulder keeps shaking,  
“Chris, babe, wake up.” I open my eyes to see you holding me close to you, smoothing my hair back. I fell asleep wrapped around you, my head resting on your stomach. “You were crying, hon, what’s wrong?”  
I can’t tell you. I wrap my arms tighter around your waist and bury my face in your stomach. You rub my back as my shoulders shake.  
“Talk to me, Chris, what happened?” I mumble into your shirt, trying to shake the feeling of the dream, but it’s too close to home. You coax me into sitting up,  
“I’m not ready.” I whisper.  
“For what?” you take hold of my chin and make me look at you,   
“Don’t make me say good bye.”  
This takes you by surprise, but you can’t stop the tears from brimming and you scoot down the hospital bed with me,   
“Listen to me, Chris. Everything is going to be fine, I’m fighting as hard as I can here. But I need you to promise me something.” I really don’t like where this is going,  
“Anything you want, babe. I’ll do anything for you.”  
“Promise me…” I know you’re trying to steady your voice, so I know I don’t want to hear what you’re about to say; I cut you off, instead, pulling you into a kiss,  
“We’re not talking about that. Just… Just stay here, stay with me.” You press your forehead to mine,  
“I’m trying.”  
.  
.  
.  
During the following two months, the doctors kept saying they were hopeful, that you were making progress, but all I saw was the toll it was taking on you. Some days were better than others, Half the time seemed to be spent with me patting your back gently, holding your hair as you failed to keep down yet another meal, then tucking you back into bed and mopping your forehead with a cool washcloth. But then the rest of the time was spent playing travel scrabble and go fish on your hospital bed whenever you had the energy after your treatment; there was also that one time that you convinced me to play strip poker with you. I’m still positive you stacked the deck somehow, how else would I have ended up in my boxers, with one sock, and you hadn’t even lost your sweater? Although, I don’t think that older nurse minded much if her smirk was anything to go by. I think that was the last time I remember you really laughing. When you weren’t beating me at cards, it seemed to help to have me read to you, so you would curl up against me, most of the time draped over me or twisted around me. I still remember the time I was reading Prototype to you; you would convulse periodically, tensing against the pain, but eventually you were finally able to fall asleep. I combed my fingers through your hair, listening to your breathing, when I felt a handful of hair come loose from your scalp. I jerked in surprise, waking you up. I know you saw me go pale, staring at my hand where your hair was tangled around my fingers.  
“I’m sorry.” I whisper frantically, seeing you tear up, “I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry.”  
“I know,” you try to quiet me, but I know your heart is sinking, and I can’t stop it,   
“I’m sorry.” You smooth your hair out subconsciously,   
“You didn’t do anything. It’s okay.” We hold each other close, trying to shake off the fear creeping in on both of us.   
“I’m so sorry, baby.”   
Not too long after that, your shoulders stopped shaking and your tears dried in my t shirt. I like to think you fell asleep, but following that, I couldn’t focus on our book, I just held you. I wanted to hold you from then on, I had no intention of letting you go.


	9. Chapter 9

The first time I mentioned feeling sick, I immediately regretted it. Anytime I couldn’t account for a bruise, or I wasn’t sleeping well, you would go pale, shut down, retreat into that deep dark side of your mind. It scares me when I don’t know how to bring you back. I don’t know what to say to make it go away, especially when you won’t talk to me. It can’t be an easy thing to recover from, what you went through, and I wish more than anything that I knew how to help.  
.  
.  
.  
They were so hopeful. They were so sure. I could see you getting thinner and paler, but they assured me it was just side effects, never mind the fact that you were starting to cough up blood. I caught on pretty quickly that they were just trying to pacify me. You told me over and over not to antagonize your doctors, that they really were doing their best to get you better, but anyone could see it wasn’t working. Finally, some new blood tests came back from the lab and your doctor sat down with the both of us, promising a straight conversation,  
“I got your test results back.” he said,   
“So when can I go home?” I frown at your tone, you sound like you’re joking, like you don’t want to let yourself believe you’ll get to go back, and the fact that I can’t read the Doc’s face is really putting me on edge,  
“I’d like to say you can go home whenever you like.” He begins, your joking smile melting away. He takes a breath, I’m not ready for this bombshell, “I’m afraid the tumors have spread to both your lungs and your stomach.”  
I go completely cold, the room tilts around me. I hold onto the side of the bed to keep from slipping to the floor.  
“You said it was looking promising,” I hear you whisper. Your voice is far off, I’m hardly able to hear it over my pulse pounding in my ears.  
“It was. We seemed to be in a holding pattern for a few weeks there, but these new results show that the cancer has been resistant to this treatment.”  
“Resistant?”  
“Not only have we failed to shrink the tumors, but the growths are increasing in size and multiplying.”  
Your hand slips from mine, which gets my attention. I stare at your profile, taking in the tightness in your jaw, half of your hair had fallen out when you decided to have me buzz the rest of it for you, now there is no sign of hair left. You are refusing to look at me again, you always do that when you are trying to shield me from something,  
“How long?” You ask He hangs his head for a moment, more in a show of remorse than deliberation. He already knows the answer,  
“At this rate, I estimate no more than a month.” You blink a few times and nod.   
I keep expecting to wake up again, I’ve dreamt this a few times before, always waking to you holding me tighter, kissing my forehead, smoothing my hair back.   
Why can’t I wake up now?


	10. Chapter 10

You still have nightmares. I’ve even caught you sleep walking a few times, though you don’t believe me. You never go far, just to the window where you stare up at the stars. Sometimes you mutter, but I can never make any of it out. Most nights you end up jerking out of sleep, sometimes with a cry, sometimes a whimper, always reaching for me right after.  
It took a long time not to take it personally when you called me by her name.  
.  
.  
.  
When we met I was working on pushing a project into the production phase, you had always pushed me to direct more, reminding me how much I loved it. I was in the middle of convincing a very important backer to invest in the film when the Doc gave us that news three weeks ago. I’m pretty sure the project has been scrapped at this point. I haven’t left your side, haven’t answered the phone, my family has even taken to coming by in intervals to make sure we don’t need anything, to make sure I don’t drive you crazy and to see that you have some more visitors, trying to keep your spirits up. We haven’t been able to track down your family members so far. My family hasn’t visited as often in the last month, giving us space and time to be alone.  
“Babe, you never let me finish, but you have to this time.” Not this again,  
“No, I won’t do it.”  
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say—“  
“Yes, I do, and I won’t do it.” I hug you closer to me, nuzzling into the back of your neck, wishing for the last eight months to be a horrible nightmare and I could wake up with you against me like this back in my apartment; both complaining about having to go to work, fighting over who has to brave the cold air of the apartment to make the coffee.  
“Chris.”  
“No. You aren’t allowed.”  
“I’m not allowed to love you?” Your jokes are falling flat on me tonight.  
“You’re not allowed to leave me. You already promised.” I don’t cry. I feel my heart breaking, but I don’t cry.  
“Yes, Christopher.”  
Why couldn’t you leave it at that? Why couldn’t we stay like that?  
About an hour later we are still silent and I can almost feel myself falling asleep when you speak up again,  
“Babe, you have to listen to me, now. I know you won't want to hear this but you need to."  
"No."  
"Yes." You roll over and look me straight in the eyes, "We have had an amazing time together. You have been unbelievably supportive when a lot of people may have walked away. I can't tell you how much I love you, and how much easier you've made this. But this has to be it. You have to promise me you will move on."   
"I can't do that."  
"You have to. You need to live. Keep working, keep helping, keep loving the best you know how."  
"Why are you talking like this?" I'm trying not to be angry, but the idea is too much,  
"Chris, I've accepted this. It's time to go."  
"No" I know I sound petulant, but I've been trying to avoid this talk for months now.  
"I have to go. I'm so tired, baby. Everything hurts all the time, and nothing is working the way it should. It's time to go." Your voice is so soft, so weak, I almost have to lean even closer to hear you. I hold you tighter,   
"Please, baby, don't do this. Don't give up."  
"I'm not giving up. I'm okay with this, really. It's okay. It's time for you to get your own life back and start living again. Go live for me."  
"Why are you doing this?"  
"Promise."  
"I don't--"  
"Promise me." You're just as stubborn as I am, so this could go on for hours, but I already feel my resolve cracking. This is your last request of me. How am I supposed to say no to you?  
"...okay." You look relieved even as you cry, burying your face in my shoulder. I hold you a while longer, waiting for you to fall asleep. I feel your breathing even out when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It's a text from Kenny. He's technically my production assistant, but he was at least as invested in that project as I was, so he's really become more of a co-producer.  
'Hey, Chris. Just want to let you know, we got that backer a few weeks ago! I've been taking care of production prep, everyone has been updated on your situation, but only as much as they need to be. We've put everything on hold indefinitely, but our investors even agree: the project is ready for you whenever you can make it back.  
I hope you're doin okay, man. We all do.'  
My situation. I bristle at the term, feeling like this isn't his business, but after reading the text a few times, I almost see the good news. Our investors haven't backed out. They are being more understanding than I probably deserve right now.  
I look back down at you in my arms, fidgeting every once in a while, trying to get comfortable.   
I promised. You made me promise.  
It was another week of restless sleep, you tossing and turning, waking for a moment in pain, but not really waking, only to lay back down and fidget some more.  
Finally, one night, I was sitting in the chair beside the bed, staring at you; you lay still for the first time and over a month, when you opened your eyes seeming wide awake all of a sudden. You reach out and cup my cheek, your eyes bright as you smile at me. A real, loving smile, no pity, no regret, just happiness at seeing me. You are so beautiful.  
And I know what’s coming.  
"I promise, baby." I grasp your hand, kissing your palm, then plant a kiss on your forehead. "I promise."  
You nod and sigh, then blink a couple of times before I see the light behind your eyes fade away, your hand going limp in mine.  
The machines beep and screech, alarms sounding, but I sit there in a daze, holding your hand, until I'm coaxed out of the way by a flurry of doctors and nurses. I think they work on reviving you, but I don't see them, I don't hear them, I turn and stare out your window up at the stars. The body on that bed isn't you anymore. Now you aren't in pain, you aren't tired, you aren't sick. I don't try to control the tears or the sobs. I probably sound pitiful, possibly hysterical, but I don't care. What am I supposed to do now?


	11. Chapter 11

It took six months to get you to tell me anything about that night, and even then you kept the details to a minimum. I know you don’t like to cry in front of anyone, but sometimes it’s what you need. Especially in cases like this, where you just don’t know how to let go.  
.  
.  
.  
My family planned the funeral, getting in touch with whomever could be reached from your side.   
The funeral itself was a blur, I don’t even remember getting to the church. At some point I was up at the pulpit, reading directly off of note cards. I don’t remember what I said. Afterward, at the wake, I parrot the same response to everyone to talks to me, even my best friends, I can’t see how they could possibly know what I’m going through. They can’t. They haven’t felt this before. The feeling of checking to see if I have a message from you, or wanting to tell you about something that happened, I actually get to my text inbox before I remember. I spend the better part of the afternoon trying to come up with some excuse to leave, sure that if I’m offered condolences by one more person I’ll snap. What I remembered about the service you would have liked, it was short and sweet, only a couple of people spoke, at the wake there were a lot of cheesy jokes, most of them were heard from you and passed on, but I couldn’t be around it anymore. I slip away when Scott has gone out for more ice, my mom is busy with some guests in the back yard, I think my sisters are in the kitchen, and I just got the last pitying look I can stand. I make my way out to my car as inconspicuously as possible, tearing off my tie as I speed down the road, I just need to get to my apartment. I blow right through a stop sign and it’s not the first time that I wonder if I should bother going ahead with anything… There’s a red light coming up. Why should I bother? With anything? What’s the point now?  
‘You promised me, stupid.’ I screech to a stop at the light, hanging just over the limit line. I know I didn’t really hear you, but it was so real I can nearly see the scowl on your face. I have to do this. I promised.  
When I’m finally back at my place, I shed layers of clothing on the way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of Armani in my wake until I flop onto our bed in only my boxers.   
I shift around, burrowing under the covers when my shoulder bumps into something under the pillow, under *your* pillow. A book; some weird, dystopian find of yours called Station Eleven. You’d been bugging me to read it for weeks before…   
“You’ll like it! It’s about an actor… who dies.” You would chuckle as I rolled my eyes at you. ‘I still think you would like it.’  
That voice in my head again. I guess you’ve become by conscience. A slip of paper is peeking out from the top of the book, you always used whatever was closest when you needed a bookmark. I saw you use a pair of scissors one time, then there was that time you nearly cancelled your credit card before I could convince you to check your latest book. This time it was a shopping list:  
Bananas, apples, lettuce, tomatoes, peaches (on sale), conditioner, granola (That weird kind he likes)  
I still don’t understand what it was about my granola that grossed you out so bad,  
‘It was soggy cardboard, babe.’  
“Please, just because it doesn’t make you go into a diabetic coma doesn’t mean it can be classified as cardboard…” I’m about to continue my argument when it dawns on me, I’m talking to myself. Wonderful.  
I settle back on our bed, hugging your pillow to me like a stuffed animal as I turn the book over in my hands; finally opening to the first page.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

I always loved movies growing up, even more than books, honestly, and that’s saying something. I never get tired of books, It was always just a little bit easier to get lost in the visuals of a film, watch expressions for the subtext in a story instead of being hoping to understand the author’s best grasp of creative subtlety. It was this love of movies that lead me to become a screen writer, which ultimately lead me to you. So I supposed they are even more precious to me now.  
.  
.  
.  
“Great job today, guys. I almost hate to say it, but that’s a wrap.” I yell. Applause ripples through the crowd, hugs and handshakes are passed around. It’s been six months since the funeral and wherever I go I still hear your voice in my head. There have been several nights that I could swear I felt you kiss me goodnight or snuggle up next to me in bed. Those are probably the only things that have kept me from retreating into myself; putting life on hold because it hurts too much. As it is, almost every day I have to spend my lunch break huddled in a corner by myself to get a handle on my anxiety, it’s been getting so much worse since you… since you left.   
“Hey!” Kenny yells, getting everyone’s attention, “Let’s hear it for our fearless Director and his abounding patience!” I blush a little bit at the cheering I recieve, clapping Kenny on the back and pulling him into a manly hug. If only they knew.   
As much as I was hoping to slip out without a big ceremony, I can’t leave Kenny hanging like that, so I guess I’m stuck here just a little bit longer.  
“Thanks man, this wouldn’t have happened without you.”  
“Any time, dude. If you ever need a Co-Director.”  
“I know who to call.” He gets pulled away by one of our gaffers, and I’m about to excuse myself, the close crowd not helping the anxiety I feel creeping in, but I’m stopped by someone calling me,  
“Hey, Evans, I wanna introduce you to someone.” Shelly, my Wardrobe Wizard comes shuffling over, toting along a resistant, and fairly flustered, young woman.  
She looks somewhat familiar, I know I’ve run into her a few times over the last few months, but I’ve never had a chance to talk to her. There are several crew members I haven’t met, I always feel a little guilty when that happens.  
“Meet your Senior Script Supervisor, and your biggest fan.” I chuckle at your groan and stretch out my hand,  
“Nice to meet you…”  
“Y/N, and it’s nice to meet you too. It’s been a pleasure being under you.” I see the jolt as her wording dawns on her, “Working! Working under you—For you!” her eyes get so big I can’t help it. I bark out a loud laugh, nearly doubling over. It feels good. I can’t remember the last time I really laughed, I had forgotten how much it helps to decompress. She covers her face with a resigned and thoroughly humiliated groan, her ears an angry red,  
“Hey, don’t worry about it, I’m glad we had you in our ranks. Good job keeping our stars in line, too. Thanks.” You peek between your fingers before sighing and dropping your hands,  
“No problem. I really did enjoy this project, You’re a great Director, it’s easy to work with people when they know how they want things to go.” You choose your words with amusing care, but the compliment isn’t lost,  
“Wow, well thank you. Maybe we’ll get to work together again.”  
“Hey, if you need a script supervisor or a screen writer in the, preferably very near, future, let me know.”  
“Screen writer, huh? I will definitely keep that in mind.” We chatted a little while longer, and it wasn’t until you got called away for a group picture with a few of your buddies that I realized how much I had needed to get out of there. I slip away fairly unnoticed, spouting some bogus excuse to anyone who asked why I was leaving so soon. Six months is not long enough to be able to get back to that after-party scene.  
On the way home that night I keep thinking about that blush. The horror at saying one of the worst things you could when you meet your boss. Every time I think about it, I’m convinced it’s one of the cutest blushes I’ve ever seen.  
The thought takes me completely by surprise and I immediately feel guilty.  
“Sorry babe.” I whisper into the quiet car; in my mind you are always in the passenger seat, sometimes nagging me for taking a wrong turn or a less prudent route.  
‘I know.’ My head offers. ‘It’s okay. She was cute, seemed pretty smart, too… maybe you should have gotten her number.’  
I shake my head. Now yo—I’m not making any sense. It’s only been six months, I’m not ready for that.  
‘Maybe not now…’  
I don’t think I ever will be. “I never will be.”  
‘You don’t think you will… But you did promise me.’  
I never promised to replace you.


	13. Chapter 13

My favorite date spot for us is a bookstore. We’ve found several shops with cafes in our area, so we go in and browse, I always find some corny Fantasy novel, you go for more Sci-fi, sometimes books on meditation or even Buddhism. I love seeing your random mash-up of tastes, even knowing that half of your quirks have to do with parts of her you can’t get yourself to leave behind. I can handle that. When you are close to someone it makes sense for their mannerisms and traits to rub off… And I’m fully aware of how much you love her.  
.  
.  
.  
I had finished Station Eleven in a day and a half, then proceeded to devour three more of your favorite books, mostly when I was supposed to be working. You always had more of a Sci-Fi tendency, but I still found myself getting wrapped up in the pages of a mystery that you raved about last spring, or laughing into my hand to avoid admitting to myself how arousing that trashy novel was. I finally ran out of books that you left behind in the apartment, so when I finally finished the post-production for my film, I went book shopping, hoping I would be able to remember enough titles to be able to find something.   
I walked into the small shop, the bells on the door handle jingling obnoxiously, and immediately remembered the date we spent here. There was a book you had deliberated over but insisted on leaving behind, I always intended to come back and get it for you, but we both kept so busy I had forgotten or was constantly pushing it to the back burner. I nod a hello to my friend behind the counter, leaving him to finish helping a customer, and I wander the shop for a bit. I can’t quite recall the title of that book, but I think I’ll know the spine when I see it, assuming Reggie hasn’t reorganized the shop again. I know we were on this aisle; I pace up and down, scrutinizing every spine, glancing at a few covers, none of them look quite right.  
‘That one.’  
“No, that’s not it.” I’m pretty sure that one is thicker than the one you looked at that day, and it wasn’t even the right genre. I try to move along,   
‘Trust me. That one.’  
I stop, pull the book from the shelf, ‘Citadel’. I flip it over and read the description, WWII France, mystery, adventure. I seem to remember you reading that one early on, mainly because I was the one to comfort you afterward. I flip through the pages, causing a slip of paper to flutter to the floor; picking it up, I immediately recognize your handwriting and my heart aches as I read,  
“A beautiful story. Yes, long-winded, but beautiful. The mystery of the codex being told along two different timelines, watching men and women from both sides fight over it and the powers it is said to possess; but even more importantly, the romance. The circumstances of lovers’ meeting, their paths crossing and re-crossing until they can finally find a way to be together. A story of love in wartime, seemingly doomed from the start. With so much death, how can life hold beauty again? How can love be thought of in such a dark era? I assure you that in such a time, it is even more crucial. When the darkness gets deeper, or a hard time seems endless, love is the thing that keeps us sane, makes us fight, brings us together, and proves that we are alive.”  
I stand there staring at the slip of paper, reading your note over and over, hearing it in your voice. I don’t even realize I’m crying until someone taps me on the shoulder,  
“Excuse me… are you alright?” I take the offered tissue and wipe my eyes, “Evans?” My head whips around at the tone, I was so used to you calling me that, especially when you were getting sassy with me. But it’s her, the girl from the crew, “You okay?”  
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine…”  
“Y/N.”  
“That’s it, sorry. But yeah, I’m fine.”  
“You sure? Because it looks like that book is either really good or really bad.”  
“Ah, it’s not the book… but don’t worry about it, I’m fine, really. How have you been?”  
“I’m good, been keeping busy with writing, right now I’m looking for a gift for a bookworm friend of mine. The hardest part is finding something she hasn’t read yet,” she rolls her eyes playfully, “and I happen to know that ‘fine’ actually means you aren’t fine, you just don’t want to burden anyone with TMI.” You smirk at me knowingly,  
‘Wow, what a line.’ I chuckle, still sniffing a little, partly laughing at the jealousy in your tone, partly at her calling me out the way she did.  
“Could I buy you a drink? Coffee? Or maybe make it Irish? You can lay out all the TMI you need to.” I should. But I shouldn’t. Should I?  
‘Yes, you should, dummy.’ I still feel weird about it, but you want me to go…  
“Uh… Sure. Yeah, that would be good.”


	14. Chapter 14

As sweet as you can be most of the time, you still have those cliché ‘man’ days when you just don’t want to talk. Even though I have plenty of examples of times you’ve talked through something and either the problem solved itself or you simply felt a little better, it still takes a ridiculous amount of coaxing to get you to talk about anything. It kills me seeing you wallow like that, as much as I want to think it’s out of stubbornness, I’m afraid that you don’t really see what you’re doing to yourself. And whatever I do, I can’t force you to let me in.  
.  
.  
.  
As much as I want to go, I don’t want to go. It almost feels like cheating, but is it? Surely not if it isn’t even a date,   
‘There is another reason this can’t be considered cheating, genius.’ This is just talking. Drinking and talking, you do that with you’re grandma, Chris. Even so, I’m sitting on my couch, staring at a stack of your books convinced that I’m not going to go.  
‘So, you’re just gonna stand her up, then?’  
“I’m not standing her up… I’ll text her—“  
‘And tell her what?’ I stop, phone in hand, my chest tightening,  
“I’m not ready for this.” I whisper.  
I bring her number up and start tapping out a message,  
‘Chris…’  
“Hey, I’m really sorry to do this to you so last minute…”  
‘Chris… listen to me…’  
“Not sure I’m exactly up for coming out tonight…”  
‘CHRIS!’ My phone slips from my hand,  
“Did you just—“  
‘There is nothing to be ready for. You keep saying it’s not a date,’   
“I can’t do this right now.”   
‘You have to stop secluding yourself.’ I heave myself up off the couch and shuffle over to the window, staring out over the city, and my phone vibrates in my hand. A text from her,   
“Hey, I’m leaning more toward the Irish coffee tonight, so meet me at Crossroads, Beacon St. 7:30. See you later!”  
My stomach jumps a little bit, and I’m still not sure yet if it’s in a good or bad way.  
.  
.  
.  
My cab drops me off at Crossroads a little late, partly thanks to traffic, and partly my stalling, I was still trying to decide if I really wanted to come tonight. I pace in front of the door a few times, then I hear,  
“Hey, Evans. Sorry I’m late, I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” You come jogging around the corner, apparently having walked,  
“No, not at all. Got stuck in traffic, actually. Just got here.”  
She makes me feel at ease almost immediately, basically taking charge, getting us a table and our first round. Insisting to pay for it, she tells me I can get the next one.  
“You know this isn’t Irish coffee, right?”   
“So, I’m feeling just whiskey, you got a problem with that?” she jokes, making me chuckle a little bit. After our second round and random conversation jumping from movies to sports, then somehow around to the weather, she leans forward on her elbows,   
“Okay,” she begins, “TMI away. Anything that helps you.” Normally I would close up, shrug off the question and change the subject, but after the whiskey, and with her looking so expectantly, I actually almost felt like maybe sharing wouldn’t be too bad an idea. Almost.  
“I usually try not to unload on friends. I have a therapist for that.” I wait for the cringe, or the jokes that I go to therapy.  
“When was the last time you went?”   
‘Busted’, your sing-song rings in my head. Very funny.   
“I haven’t since… I think since before I met…”  
“Her.” She finishes for me, “It sounds like you may want to get back into that. Or, you can save your money and unload now.” I hesitate,   
“I think I may need a few more rounds before I can do that.” She raises her arm calling for a third round,  
“One more, then I expect you to spill. The story, not the whiskey. It doesn’t have to be detailed, it doesn’t even have to be the real story, but help yourself here. You need to talk this through.”  
‘Thank you. See?’ I can’t help the eye roll, thankfully she doesn’t catch it.  
“Look, this is really dark, I’m not sure you really want to hear it.” The waitress brings our glasses, clearing the empties from the table, then Y/N leans across the table again, staring at me, considering something before she sets her jaw and takes a deep breath.  
“My fiancé was a military man. Did two tours, his first straight out of college. The first time he came home he was worn out, I could see that, but beyond just being physically exhausted. He was stretched thin straight through to his soul, I tried to help, making life as easy as I could for him, but his second tour broke him. He never told me what exactly what it was that hit him so hard, I just know that I was there for the nightmares, the mood swings, for when his temper snapped. Sometimes he would get to talk it out with his buddies and he would come back for a while, but I saw him slipping away, and nothing I did helped.”  
“Where is your fiancé now?” she looks almost uncomfortable, shifting in her seat.  
“He’d been home three months, but he was never really home. One night I came back from work and found him on the living room floor. He overdosed on sleeping pills. Long gone before I even got there.” She tells me with tears in her eyes, but they don’t fall.   
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask  
“To tell you that I’m no stranger to darkness. I know what it’s like. Not just to lose someone, but to watch them slip out of your reach. And to tell you that to work through it, you need to talk through it. Now you can talk to your therapist or your dog or a brick wall, it doesn’t matter, so long as you are giving yourself the chance to truly process.”  
“What is there to process? She’s… She’s…”  
“Exactly. Process reality.” I can feel myself closing off, so I down my whiskey in one gulp, focusing on the burn as it works its way down. “Where’s your girlfriend now?”  
‘Do it. Talk to her.’  
“No.” I whisper, she blinks at me,  
“No?”   
“I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I’m not sure if I’m talking to her or to you, but I jump up, tossing a few bills on the table, hoping it’s at least close to the bill total, and I take off, trying to catch my breath on the way to the door. I leave her sitting there, confused, maybe a bit worried, but I’m not ready for this.


	15. Chapter 15

Memories are such a funny thing, aren’t they? It doesn’t matter how old they are, the strongest feelings are always just as potent twenty years down the line as they were when the event occurred. The ones you want to hold onto forever: excitement of graduation, nerves on a first date, the inside jokes and side-splitting laughs shared with your best friends; your first time, especially if it was with someone you believed you were in love with. Then there are the tough ones, the ones you would pay anything to forget: the stress of school, your first break up, your parents splitting up… losing the person you thought you would be spending the rest of your life with. I wanna say that was what finally got you to open up, even just that little bit; knowing that I had been there seemed to help you, but at the same time I know that you thought I didn’t quite understand.  
.  
.  
.  
‘What is wrong with you?’ I’m sitting on the couch, not really doing anything, although I’m not sure what I could manage considering how much I’ve had to drink already. Since my drink-date-that-wasn’t-a-date with her, I haven’t really had the motivation for anything. I tried what she said, I pulled up my therapist’s number a dozen times already, but couldn’t get myself to call. So I tried going it alone, letting myself process what happened. I thought I already had, but when I tried to think back, remembering what that had been like, reliving it, the reality setting in that you weren’t actually sitting beside me on our couch, it was like getting hit in the chest by a train. I couldn’t breathe. I gave myself a panic attack. So I didn’t let myself think about it after that, whenever my train of thought started chugging up that mountain, I did a shot. It basically turned into a really depressing drinking game.  
‘Why are you doing this?’  
“No more.” I mutter, I think it was in answer to your question, even though it didn’t really answer you,  
‘Don’t make me go all Poltergeist on you, jerk. This is not what you agreed to.’  
“It hurts. Make it stop hurting.” I know I’m slurring, but at this point I really can’t help it anyway.  
‘You promised me you would move on. That you would live.’  
“No.”  
‘You did.’  
“I don’t want to do that anymore.” I try to pour another shot, it feels like the alcohol is wearing off, I’m starting to feel again. I can almost imagine your fingertips on my cheek, or combing through my hair, trying to bring me back, but at the same time the ache is too suffocating. I can’t get the liquid to pour straight, I keep missing the glass, so I give up and drink straight from the bottle.   
‘You’re a liar.’ I hear right beside my ear, so loud I actually turn to look. I know no one will be there. You’re never there. What do you care if I don’t hold up my end? You’re gone.   
I curse at myself for thinking it again and start chugging, the whiskey burns its way down, warming and numbing, and I don’t want to stop.  
Someone knocks loudly at my door, nearly making me drop my bottle,  
“Chris?” it kinda sounds like Sebastian, “Come on, man, open up.” He yells through the door.  
“I’m not home.”  
“Very funny. No one’s heard from you in a couple of days, we just wanted to make sure you’re doing alright.”  
“We?”  
“Yeah,” A woman’s voice, “I was kinda afraid I maybe pushed you a little too far the other day.” It’s her. Why did she come back? How did she know where I live? “If you don’t want to talk you don’t have to, but please just show us you’re alright.”  
“I’m fine.”  
“Evans, come on. Show us you’re actually okay and we’ll leave you alone.”  
I wait for your advice. I wait to see if you will give me an out, some excuse, anything to get rid of them. Nothing. Of course. I haul myself up onto unsteady legs, wobbling my way to the door. I miss the knob a few times trying to open it, but finally I’m leaning against the doorframe, staring at my unwanted guests  
“Geez, man.” Sebastian whistles,  
“What?” I try take another swig but he grabs the bottle from me.  
“I think you’ve had enough.” They both push their way in and I nearly lose my footing trying to put up a fight. “I’m not going to insult you by asking you how much you’ve had to drink, but I am going to cut you off.”  
“That’s still insulting me.”  
“But that’s worth the insult. This isn’t how you deal with things, you know that.”  
“Are you gonna get all touchy feely now too? Because if I wanted to talk, I would have the other night.”  
“You’ve made that clear,” Y/N pipes up, “but the other night you were doing considerably better than you are now.”  
“I wonder why that is.” I glare at her.   
“Look, why don’t I just leave you boys to it? You obviously don’t want me here anyway.” Sebastian tries to stop her as she heads out the door, not bothering to look back, and I realize I haven’t heard from you since they showed up, why aren’t you sassing them? Where did you go? I look around the apartment, searching for you, I’m not sure why,  
“This isn’t her fault. If you were doing alright, then this,” he holds up the whiskey bottle, “wouldn’t be happening.”   
I’m still turning in circles, as if I could actually find you. Why can’t I feel you? I’ve always been able to feel you right next to me.  
“What are you looking for?” He asks, a little worried. I gulp, stumbling back. Sebastian guides me to the couch, leading me to sit,  
“She’s gone.”  
“Y/N? Of course she’s gone, you made it clear you didn’t want her around.”  
“No, not her…” I see a realization dawn in his eyes and he nods as I slouch back in my seat, the numbness from the alcohol being slowly overpowered by an ache in my chest. “She’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N the story is not over. I have about 5 chapters left to wrap everything up.  
> I am SOOO sorry for the delay on this fic, I hope getting 11 chapters in one day makes up for it.   
> As I write the remainder of the story, it will be updated. I'm hoping I'll be finished with the story by next week.  
> Thank you for reading!  
> Keep an eye out for the rest.


	16. Chapter 16

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since Sebastian kicked down my door and knocked some sense into me. Three weeks since you’ve said a word to me. Mackie and Stan haven’t let me out of their sight since then, making sure I don’t try to drown my sorrows again.  
“Man, I need to get out. I’m just going for a walk, I swear.” I’m dodging around Sebastian in my own apartment,   
“Right, and I’m going with you.”  
“Sebastian, seriously, come on, man. I’m just getting a cup of coffee. I’m not going to a bar. I’ll be back in an hour.” I’m out the door and down the hall before he can protest too heavily, and a few flights of stairs later – 8 to be exact – I’m free.   
I step out into the sunlight waiting for the warmth to seep in, help me unwind; let the breeze hit my face, ruffle through my hair… I don’t feel a thing.  
I trudge down the road and, after a half hour or so, I find myself in front of a café. It’s that little one on the corner a couple of blocks from where you work.  
Worked…  
We always meant to try it out. Why didn’t we?  
I feel a flutter on the back of my neck and spin around, you used to run your fingers along the back of my neck like that, then a breeze ruffles through my hair. Just the wind, I guess. I try to shake the thought and walk in, keeping my head down. The last thing I want right now is to deal with being recognized. After ordering, I step aside, staying out of the way, as inconspicuous as I could manage, but I still hear someone to my right gasp. A young woman, sitting at a table, nursing a coffee as she reads. I see in my periphery she’s starting to pack up her things in a hurry; curious, I spare a quick glance her direction.  
“Y/N?” The woman from set. The one who decided I needed to talk about you. She winces when I say her name.  
“I’m on my way out, don’t worry.”  
“What? Why?”  
“Just… don’t mind me.”  
“You don’t have to leave.” I try to stop her, but she keeps her head down, refusing to meet my eyes, “Please, stay.” I see her pause, if just for a second. “Have a drink with me.”   
She deliberates for a moment, before giving in and sitting back down.   
I’m handed my coffee and took my seat next to her.  
“Last time we had a drink, it didn’t really work out well.”  
“Yeah, well, last time I was a jerk.”  
“No arguments there.” She mutters. I wince, knowing I deserve it, but her eyes get wide and she corrects herself, “But you were… are going through something that’s not easy, to say the least. I understand--”   
“I know you do.” I cut her off, “That’s still no reason to treat you like that. I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”  
“And I’m telling you there’s nothing to forgive.” She offers a half smile and we sit in a semi awkward silence for a few minutes. I finally remember something,  
“You said you’re a screenwriter, right?”  
“Yeah, or… trying to be.”  
“Are you working on anything now?” she snorts a little bit,  
“I’m always working on something. Now, whether that something will help pay the bills, is another issue.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I have two whole shelves of original screen plays on my bookcase at home. No one’s ever interested.”  
“I am.” She looks skeptical at first, like she’s wondering if I’m just trying to make peace, but I finally get her to start describing some of her ideas.  
She generally seems to like writing Sci-Fi action, but she told me about a couple of spy scripts, and what she described as her only attempt at romance. I was listening intently, asking questions, genuinely interested, when I slipped up,  
“Oh, she would have loved that one. She was a shameless Sci-Fi geek.” It takes a minute before I realize I used past tense, "Sorry, I didn't mean to--"  
"No, please, tell me more about her." She leans on her elbows looking sincerely interested,  
"Seriously?"  
"Yeah, why not?"  
"Women don't usually want to hear about the woman who came before them."   
She sniggered a little bit.  
"Really, she sounds fantastic, I really don’t know anything about her, and it’s not like we’re actually together.” She’s smiling, but I could swear she almost sounds hurt, “So, how did you land a girl like her?"  
I laughed a little bit at the playful insult, but promptly launch into the story of how we met. Coming into the sandwich shop almost every day, the bag of chips, the date in the bookstore.  
"Wait... That was her? I bought a book there, Station Eleven,"   
"That was one of her favorites." I say with a nod, leaning over the table as she continued,  
"It had a post it in it that gave a fantastic review, actually got me to buy the book and it recommended another just like it... Just realized I haven't read that one. I always wondered if I'd ever get to meet that person."  
We both go quiet and I see the understanding in her eyes. I don’t feel you. I don’t hear you. But I actually know what to do this time, so I ask.  
“Would you like to have dinner?”


	17. Chapter 17

She said yes. I almost can’t believe she said yes. I’d never admit it out loud, but I have to say I’m almost giddy, and incredibly nervous, as I get everything ready: making the dinner reservations, confirming the time with Y/N, down to my clothes for the night. Isn’t this that shirt you hated so much? You said something like the color clashed with my skin tone. Would she hate it as much as you did? Why didn’t you ever make me get rid of it? Am I too dressed up? I keep asking your opinion. I know you won’t answer, but I still ask.  
I take one more look at the clock and realize if I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late.   
“I guess here goes nothing.” I say to myself, grabbing my wallet and keys off the table beside my front door, “Wish me luck.” I whisper futilely into the darkened room, and turn to leave.  
‘Good Luck.’   
I spin in the doorway. I heard it. It was just a whisper, a draft, and I can’t feel you anywhere, but I know what I heard. I pause a little longer than I should, hoping you’ll talk to me, brush your hand across my cheek or something, just prove to me that wasn’t a breeze. Nothing comes. I glance at my watch again.   
I’m late.  
.  
.  
.  
“Really, you should be ashamed of yourself for being five minutes late. Especially when I wasn’t even ready to go.” Y/N teases as I apologize for the hundredth time tonight for picking her up late.   
“I know, I know.” I mutter, pulling her chair out for her once we’re shown to our table, “I still feel bad.”  
“I know.” She laughs, taking my hand from across the table when I sit, “It was five minutes.”  
She pulls away when the waiter comes, and as soon as we both order, I want to reach back over and take her hand again, but I can’t talk myself into it. Instead, I try to get the conversation started.  
“Did you break through that wall in your screenplay?” She groans, hanging her head,  
“I can’t figure out how. I kind of want the protagonist to find a clever way out, but every time I sit down to write it, I feel like killing him off.” I snort at her issue, “Hey, is it my fault that he doesn’t want to cooperate?”  
“Considering this is your character, I’m going to have to say yes, it’s your fault.” We chat for a long while, poking fun at each other, stealing food off of each others’ plates; occasionally drifting to deeper topics, delving into each others childhoods, then winding our way back to talking about books.   
“Oh! I finally started reading The Martian, the book that was recommended on that post-it in Station Eleven--” She cuts herself off, her eyes widening. I guess she’s still too worried to talk about you with me, but to my surprise, I’m more interested in the book than her mention of our date so long ago,   
“I haven’t read that one, is it any good?” She relaxes with a small smile and launches into a summary of what she’s read so far.  
We manage to talk for several more hours about sci-fi books and movies, sometimes arguing about the execution of different storylines or the plausibility of certain subjects,  
“I’m serious.” I insist, “Give it maybe another decade and our machines will take us all hostage.”  
“That’s not even the plot.”  
“I’m not talking about a movie, I’m talking real world, here.” She laughs, which melts into a stifled yawn. I check my watch and notice that we’ve been sitting here for almost four hours already,  
“Alright, let’s get you home.” I chuckle, calling for the check and hailing a cab for us. I walk her all the way to her door, somewhere along the way, my arm winds its way around her waist.  
“You didn’t have to walk me all the way up here, you know.” She mumbles even as she leans her head on my shoulder, both of us still relaxed from the wine we had with dinner.  
“I know I don’t have to.” My hand flexes on her hip as we make it to her door.  
“I had a great time tonight.” She says softly, turning toward me,  
“Yeah, me too.” She looks me in the eyes, hesitating for a moment, just long enough for me to move without over thinking. Surprising us both for the second time tonight, I pull her to me and kiss her lightly. We both tense up, frozen, until she relaxes against me, her hands resting on my shoulders. I press her closer, one hand at the small of her back, letting the other tangle in her curls. She gasps lightly and a switch flips in the pit of my stomach. I press her back against the outside of her door, my kisses turning hungry. She moans, parting her lips for me, and I suddenly can’t breathe. I forget where we are and kiss across her jaw, down her neck, latching on to a spot right behind her ear, making her gasp.  
“Chris.” She whispers, pressing on my shoulder, “Chris, not out here.” Her push brings me back to my senses. I step back, staring at her as I try to catch my breath,  
“I shouldn’t have done that.” I rake my fingers through my hair, stepping back again,  
“Chris…”  
“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—“  
“Chris!”  
“That was wrong…” She silences me with another kiss.   
“Nothing you did was wrong.” She whispers, her face hovering so close to mine, her hands sliding up into my hair, my eyes falling shut,  
“What would she think of me?” I’m not sure I said it out loud until I open my eyes and she’s staring back at me.  
“I know I didn’t know her, Chris. I wish I had met her, she sounds like an amazing woman.” I try to look away, but her grip on my jaw keeps me looking in her eyes, “Of all the stories you have told me about her, I think she would be proud of you.” My vision is swimming, tears welling and falling before I can do anything about it, “You have come so far in such a short time. You’ve made a movie. An impressive one. You actually stepped out on a date.” I close my eyes again, resting my forehead against hers and covering her hands with mine. “She would want you to be happy, Chris. I know it.” She kisses my cheeks, smoothing the tears away, “That’s all I want for you too.”   
‘It’s true. It’s time to let go’  
The whisper again, echoing in the back of my mind.  
I hug her close, nuzzling into her neck, still sniffling a little bit. She doesn’t say anything else, she just stands with me, letting me hold her while she combs her fingers through my hair.  
“Thank you.” I whisper, partly to Y/N, partly to any part of you that is still patient enough to hold on to me until I’m ready for you to go.


	18. Finale

~*~ 6 Months Later ~*~

“Hey Sweetheart. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it yesterday, shooting went a little longer than I had planned. This project is going really well, though, I think it’ll do even better than the last one. Y/N’s Sci-fi screenplay has gone over really well so far with all of the production companies we’ve presented it to, our leads are doing an amazing job, we were just wiped out last night.” I pull my coat tighter against the chilled wind, shaking some snow off the shoulders. “You’d love this movie… I think you’d like Y/N, too. She’s so much like you, she’s sweet, she doesn’t take any of my crap, she makes me laugh like you would, the family loves her…” I sweep some of the snow from your headstone, dreading what I’m about to say.  
“I love you so much, and I believe that I always will. I remember when we started talking about our future, I don’t know if you knew this, but I was planning to propose to you. It was actually going to be around the time you got sick again. It killed me that I couldn’t follow through, that I would never meet our family, never see you as the amazing mother I knew you would be.” I don’t bother trying to suppress the tears. This is long overdue.  
I feel that whispering breeze against my cheek, brushing through my hair at the back of my neck.  
“I love you so much. You know that.”  
‘Yes Christopher.’ There’s a fluttering kiss on my forehead,  
“You know I never wanted to let you go.”  
‘Yes Christopher.’ Another kiss to my cheek, I swallow hard,  
“But you and I both know… We both know this isn’t fair to her.” I drop to my knees at your grave, “You told me to live. You told me to keep going.” I know my voice is no more than a whisper, I just can’t manage any more, “You told me to let you go.”  
‘Yes Christopher.’  
I feel you.   
For the first time since that night in my apartment, the night I tried to break my promise to you almost seven months ago. I can feel you in my arms. I keep my eyes closed, afraid of what I might see, or not see, if I open them. I feel your head on my shoulder, your fingers in my hair, your breath on my cheek as you whisper.   
‘I love you, Chris. I’ve missed you. I wanted us both to be grey and wrinkly before I had to say goodbye. I know it feels like too much to keep going, and I know you don’t want to sometimes.’ I grip you tighter as you talk, ‘No, Chris. It’s time.’ You kiss my cheek,   
“It’s time.” I whisper in agreement, “I’ll always love you. My angel.” I feel you chuckle quietly,  
‘Yes Christopher.’  
The wintry wind blows through the bare branches over us,   
‘Goodbye, Sweetheart.’ You whisper in my ear, your last words to me before the breeze hits me, swirling the snow in its wake, ruffling my hair, sweeping you out of my arms.   
I wait for the cold to hit. I wait to feel empty and alone. I never do. I almost feel light, happy.  
I can still smell you on my coat, the warmth of your kiss lingering on my cheek.  
You gave me your blessing.  
I look up at the grey sky,  
“I promise, baby… I promise.”  
.  
.  
.  
“I still wanna kill him off.” She grumbles as we take a walk through the Arboretum,  
“Yeah, well you can’t now. We already shot his escape, and it was really good.”  
“Well this time it isn’t my fault, why would you shoot a movie backwards like that?”  
“Maybe I did it on purpose so that your bouts of creative frustration couldn’t be taken out on my best hero.” I tease, holding her closer when I see her shiver, my arm slung across her shoulders. “Besides, you’re just sore because the character gave you so much trouble. You know the story wouldn’t be as good if you killed him.” She looks at me sideways, knowing I’m right. I’ve seen her get vengeful with her characters before, it’s funny to watch until she gets truly frustrated with them. I think she’s going to continue arguing, but instead, she snuggles a little closer, wrapping her arms around my waist,   
“How’d it go this morning?” She asks quietly. I told her she could come with me, but she insisted that she didn’t want to get in the way.   
“It went well, actually.” I see her hopeful look and respond with a soft smile, “Really well.”   
“Good.” She smiles back, kissing me right under my jaw.  
I lead her down a side path between icy bushes and under branches piled with snow.  
“It’s really beautiful out here.” She sighs, “I don’t know how I’d never heard of this place.”  
“I knew you’d like it. Just wait, the best part is coming up.”  
We wind down the darkening path, taking our time, when we round a corner and I hear her gasp. The route lead us to an old stone bridge, crossing over a now frozen creek. The lamps lining the walkways made the drifts of snow glow and sparkle,   
She wanders ahead of me, looking out over the sheets of ice as it gleamed by the lamplight and moonlight, and leans against one of the stonewalls. Looking back, she beckons me to join her.   
“Chris, this is gorgeous.” She leans back into my side, my arm finding its way around her waist,  
“I told you. The best part.” We stand side by side for a few minutes, watching the snowflakes glitter around us, keeping each other warm, when I suddenly pull away. She looks at me, confused,  
“What’s wrong.” I look at her for a long moment before shaking my head,   
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to tell you something.” I see her guard go up, thinking it’s bad news.  
“Oh?” She asks, wrapping her arms around herself. She avoids my eyes, so I take her chin in my hand, making her look at me.  
“I love you.” Her breath catches, “I know I let it slip out before, and I didn’t really handle it well,” I chuckle. The first time I told her was after a date a couple of weeks ago, I was dropping her off and the words came out before I knew what I was saying. As soon as they registered, I wanted to take them back, even though I knew I loved her then. I just wasn’t ready. I know I’m ready now.  
“And thank you for everything. You’ve been unbelievable through this whole thing.”  
“You don’t have to thank me.” She relaxes, stepping closer to me, kissing me chastely, “I love you too. And I’m so proud of you.”  
“I really couldn’t have done any of this without you. If it was left up to me I would probably be a hermit by now.” She snorts,  
“Don’t be ridiculous. You would have made it just fine without me.”  
“I don’t want to think about what that would be like.” I look at her meaningfully, making her pause,  
“I’m not going anywhere, Chris.”  
“I know.” I smile, “Neither am I.” I turn us to face each other and, in the middle of the snow, I drop to one knee, pulling a small box from my pocket,  
“Y/N, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” She gasps,  
“Oh my-- Chris…”   
“Oh my Chris what?” I prompt, still kneeling in the snow,  
“You’re… you’re sure about this?” I start laughing at her, I can’t help myself. I stand, leaning my forehead against hers,  
“Babe, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” She keeps staring at me, to the point where I actually start to wonder if this was too soon.  
“Yes.” She breathes, so low I almost don’t catch it,  
“Yeah?”  
“Yes!” She jumps into my arms, “Of course I’ll marry you!” I hug her close, spinning her around, slipping on a patch of ice, sending both of us sprawling in the snow, laughing like idiots.  
I slip the ring on her finger and we both stayed laying, huddled together on the bridge,   
“I love you so much.” She laughs,  
“I love you too.”  
It was a while before we decided it was time to go. On our way out of the park, having my arm around her felt… right. I knew I was coming home.


End file.
